


We'll just have to Adjust

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: You Wanna be Alive just to Watch the Bruises Heal [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Ace!Feuilly, Asexual Character, Asexual Feuilly, Asexuality, Deaf Character, Deaf!Feuilly, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:43:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel’s opening of the front door is never a quiet affair. He usually pushes the handle down too hard and lets it swing open until it more often than not hits the wall. (There’s a dent.)<br/>Today is no different, and his mother glances up from where she’s bouncing Jacqui on her knee. The girl gurgles and laughs as her brother strides in. <br/>Bahorel is eight. His black hair is messy, as usual, from a day of running around the play-ground no doubt. It’s only the first day back at school but his red jumper has a stripe of pen across the stomach and dirt on the sleeve. <br/>“I’m going to learn sign language.” He announces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll just have to Adjust

Bahorel’s opening of the front door is never a quiet affair. He usually pushes the handle down too hard and lets it swing open until it more often than not hits the wall. (There’s a dent.)  
Today is no different, and his mother glances up from where she’s bouncing Jacqui on her knee. The girl gurgles and laughs as her brother strides in.   
Bahorel is eight. His black hair is messy, as usual, from a day of running around the play-ground no doubt. It’s only the first day back at school but his red jumper has a stripe of pen across the stomach and dirt on the sleeve.   
“I’m going to learn sign language.” He announces.   
“Are you?” His mother glances up. “What’s sparked off this idea?”  
“There’s a new kid in our class. He’s not from around here and he’s deaf. No one will talk to him because they think it’s weird and I want to be his friend.” He nods, hands on hips, and there’s such a look in his eyes that says he won’t be talked out of this. His mother smiles.   
“I’ll find you some books tomorrow when I go shopping.”  
The next day, when his mother drops him at the gates, Bahorel walks straight up to a lost looking boy. His hair is curly and dark, his eyes wide as he clutches at a book and gazes around the play-ground. He all but flinches back as Bahorel approaches him with the piece of paper he’d prepared earlier; making sure his hand writing was clear and precise.   
He raises his hand to his head and waves shortly. Feuilly’s face breaks open in a wide smile that shows missing teeth and reaches down into eyes to make them sparkle. Bahorel can’t help but smile as well, and Feuilly returns the greeting. He shoves the paper into his hands.  
‘I’m Bahorel.’ It reads, and Feuilly squints at it. ‘I’d like to be your friend.’ Feuilly glances up at him, and then clasps his hands together, pulling them over his heart. He points to the word friend and nods in a questioning way. Bahorel allows himself another grin and mimics, nodding.   
At break time they sit on the playing field and Feuilly goes through the alphabet for him, pointing to each letter in turn before he signs it.   
Bahorel decides he likes Feuilly’s laugh, the one that over flows out of him at random intervals, like he can’t contain his happiness in just smiles. It has a rusty edge; it’s quiet in whispers from behind his teeth and shakes his shoulders and chest. He covers his mouth and his eyes crinkle. 

 

When Bahorel masters the alphabet he invites Feuilly over to dinner at his house. He signs it out, laboriously, using the letters he’s learnt. Feuilly grins and signs yes. He pauses, presses his lips together then takes the paper sitting between them.   
His writing is messy and still has spelling mistakes, but it’s getting better compared to when he first arrived at the school.  
‘I wish I could take you to dinner at my house.’ He writes. ‘I would, if I could. But I can’t.’  
‘Why not?’  
‘I-‘ He pauses, chewing his lip. ‘I live in an orphanage.’  
Bahorel can feel his mouth fall into an ‘o’ and he blinks a couple of times. Feuilly looks embarrassed, hurriedly going to pack up his things and signing ‘I’m sorry’. Bahorel shakes his head, reaching out a hand, Feuilly sits back down with a thump.  
‘Your parents?’  
‘They died last year. That’s why I ended up here this term.’ Feuilly raises one shoulder in an awkward shrug and Bahorel surges forward to pull him into a tight hug. He can hear the breath being knocked out of Feuilly’s lungs but he doesn’t let go until the other returns the hug.  
“You can share my parents.” He murmurs, the writes it out. Feuilly just smiles shyly and pockets the note. (He still has it, but won’t tell Bahorel that.)

 

Dinner comes about that Friday, and the dinner table ends up covered in various notes and bits of paper and Feuilly’s cheeks hurt from smiling.  
‘What do you like to do in your free time?’ Bahorel’s mother asks. Feuilly mimes reading a book for the sake of ease. His parents had never been able to read, not much, and since he’s been determined to learn as much as he can.   
‘I like history books.’ He adds to the answer. ‘And I like drawing.’   
He’s noticed some trophies behind on the cabinet and he turns to Bahorel, pointing first to him and then miming boxing, cocking his head. Bahorel glances around, realisation crossing his face, and then nods with his wide grin. Feuilly points to himself.  
‘Me too.’ He picks up the pen ‘Used to anyway. Before I came here.’  
‘Were you any good?’  
‘I’m not bad.’ Feuilly grins. 

 

When Christmas comes around Feuilly is again invited to their house for Christmas Eve. He spends the day surrounded by someone else’s family and finds he can actually be happy again, properly. He draws the family a Christmas card, or rather he draws them at least 10 because he can’t get it right. He apologises for not being able to supply an actual present and is reassured more than once that he wasn’t expected to.   
That evening they help Bahorel’s mother bake cookies, and Feuilly ices them precisely, joking all the while about Bahorel’s lack of flair.   
When they open presents the next morning he finds an envelope addressed to him, it’s red and the writing is Bahorel’s. He questions it before pulling it open. Bahorel’s watching him, a half un-wrapped present in his hands.  
It’s a card, with a typical Santa scene on the front; something falls out as he opens it and he discovers another piece of paper detailing membership to a boxing club in town.   
He points at himself.  
‘Me?’ A nod and a wide grin with the front canine missing. ‘Thank you.’ He signs it again, a grin pulling at the muscles of his face involuntarily. ‘Thank you!’

 

His weeks have a planned structure now, on Wednesday’s it’s boxing then Friday evenings are reserved for going to Bahorel’s for dinner. The rest of the week is spent between school and the library of the orphanage.   
He doesn’t like to boast, but by the time summer ends and he’s known Bahorel for a whole year his writing is better than his friends. (He won’t admit, ever, that he stays up most nights to practice. But then, Bahorel will never admit to watching the hearing impaired news on mute now to see how much he can understand.)  
He’s gotten back into the swing of boxing, his movements’ rusty at first from half a years missed practice. Now he’s almost top of the class, and every fight he thinks about his father having done it when he was his age and he smiles just a little more and tells him about it when he gets home.   
Bahorel fights alongside him, rarely opposite, and signs him ‘well done’s as he floors an opponent who underestimated him. He’s found his deafness is actually a help, as people don’t expect him to be able to fight as well as they do (He usually fights better).  
He first faces Bahorel in the ring when they’re both 11, it’s the final evening of the season and the matches are quick fire.  
Bahorel ends up on the floor quicker than expected, Feuilly grinning down at him.   
‘I told you I was good.’

It becomes a thing for them, sparring more regularly to try and beat the other. Bahorel has the size and strength compared to Feuilly’s smaller frame, but Feuilly is quick and turns his attacks around on him. (Their scoring stands at 10-7 to Feuilly.)  
Bahorel can sign sentences now, though it doesn’t flow quite as well as it could and he still makes mistakes. It doesn’t matter; every time he does it means Feuilly can correct him with a smile and a laugh. He’s enjoyed teaching him enjoyed having someone to talk to without paper and pens and someone who’s made the effort to get to know him when he could have been friends with anyone.

‘How does our teacher speak?’ Feuilly asks one day at the beginning of term as they sit watching kids laugh and shout in the playground.  
Bahorel dwells on it.  
‘She sounds musical.’ He writes it down, the pauses. ‘That’s going to mean nothing to you.’ He ponders a bit more, tapping his lip with the pen. ‘Alright, let’s try this. She sounds like… You know flowers on a summer’s day, when they have dew on them and they sway in the breeze. That’s what she sounds like.’   
Feuilly smiles widely. His brown eyes search Bahorel’s face in intrigue.  
Bahorel makes it a point after that to listen to people, to find out how they speak and what it reminds him of and relays it to Feuilly.   
His mother sounds like a soft knitted blanket, but her laughter is harsher, like wooden spoons against cooking bowls. His father’s voice is deep and crunches like gravel beneath your feet.   
It’s hard to describe sounds visually, but it’s worth it to see Feuilly’s beaming smile. It lights up his face when he can tell if someone’s voice is soft or deep or loud. He points them out to Bahorel and asks if he’s right in his description and he learns.

Bahorel decides, at the age of eleven, that one day he’ll live with Feuilly. 

He starts that day.  
“But Mum he doesn’t have anyone else, just us. He’s all alone there but here it’s like he’s at home.”  
“We can’t dear.”  
“Why not?! You love him, Dad loves him. Jacqui really loves him! What’s the problem?” He whines.  
“It’s a difficult process. We might not be suitable and I wouldn’t want you getting your hopes up. Besides, he might find a nice family-“  
“Or he could end up with some horrible foster parents who live far away and don’t know how to be nice to him. You know what he’s like, you’d be great!”  
The conversation goes nowhere, and he never mentions it to Feuilly, out of a mixture of embarrassment and fear of disappointment. 

Feuilly never ends up with the terrible foster parents Bahorel feared; he spends his childhood in the home. Bahorel’s not sure whether it saddens him or not, but at least there he knows Feuilly’s close by, and that he has his other friend, Madeline, who is his interpreter at school.  
It’s only when they’re fifteen that Bahorel asks him about it. Feuilly looks at his hands a while before he lifts them to sign.  
‘People don’t want kids that are too old. Or that they’ll have to… Work for. It doesn’t surprise me that people want to be able to talk to their kids from day one really.’ He pauses and presses his lips together. ‘And people don’t want certain… Backgrounds. Like Manush or Kale backgrounds for example.’  
Bahorel takes a moment to process it.  
‘So you’re..?’  
‘My parents were travellers, yes.’ He glances across at Bahorel, and there’s worry in his eyes behind a slightly over grown fringe. ‘Are you looking at me differently knowing that..?’  
‘No! Not at all. I just never realised. Not that it should be any different.’ He signs it all too quickly; if he was speaking he’d be stammering over his words he’s sure. ‘I’m amazed people worry so much.’   
Feuilly shrugs.   
‘Maybe one day they won’t.’ 

Feuilly makes it his mission to save up enough to leave on his 18th birthday. No matter what Bahorel says.   
It’s not that he inherently dislikes the place, but it doesn’t feel like home, it doesn’t feel permanent. He smiles a little.  
‘I’d like to travel.’

 

He gets his first job at 16, when exams finish, working in a coffee shop at the edge of town. He works the machines in the back, all reading and cleaning and orders.   
That’s one thing Feuilly’s good at, pushing through. He doesn’t give up, doesn’t get worn down. He just keeps going.   
That’s always a good thing, until the end of his last exam when Bahorel goes to meet him and instead finds him slumped against the wall outside the hall. He touches his shoulder and Feuilly doesn’t even jump. When he moves him even slightly to look at him Feuilly collapses forward into his arms, bringing them both near to falling.   
“Shit.” Feuilly isn’t particularly big, but he is nearly Bahorel’s height and all but a dead weight in his arms as he gently lowers them both to the floor. Feuilly groans a little. “I need you to stay awake dammit, stay awake!” Bahorel pats his cheek. “Come on Feuilly.”  
Feuilly wakes up later in a hospital bed, Bahorel hasn’t looked away from him even for a second since they arrived, his fingers laced tightly together against his lips.   
He wakes up groggily, blinking, mumbling softly. Then his eyes fly open and he pushes himself up, mutely mouthing in panic.  
“No no no.” Bahorel moves quickly, his hands against the others shoulder blades. ‘Rest.’   
‘I have work.’ Feuilly signs at him frantically ‘I’ll be late.’  
‘I already called your boss and said you have to have the next week off, doctors’ orders.’  
‘Doctors?’ Feuilly frowns against a faint headache, but he lies back against the pillows. ‘Where am I?’  
‘In hospital, you collapsed at school. They brought you in as a precaution, were going to put you on an IV but luckily you weren’t quite that dehydrated. Just stressed and exhausted and god knows what else.’ Bahorel sits back in the seat with a thump. ‘You can’t keep doing this.’ He says the words as he signs them; it makes him feel better to have them out. ‘You’re human Feuilly.’   
‘I’m aware of that fact.’  
‘I don’t think you are! I’ve hardly seen you and I thought that was just because this was a big exam. But then your boss tells me that you’ve been working most nights as well?! You can’t do that, it doesn’t work. I know you want to save up…’  
‘I want to get away Bahorel.’  
‘I know, but you can’t do that if you collapse at work, or in the street!’ He runs a hand over his face. ‘Why don’t we move out, together? I’m going to Uni anyway, and it would save us both. Get flat, go halves.’ He sighs. ‘I know it’s not what you wanted, but it’ something. And I’m not having you work yourself into the ground over summer. Okay?’ Feuilly sighs, pulls a face and then signs back an okay. ‘It’ll be fun. And your boss said you can have at least part of the week paid, on account of how hard you’ve been working.’ He raises an eyebrow and Feuilly has the decency to look slightly ashamed. ‘So, relax. Exams are finished; when my parents arrive later you can come back for dinner, yeah?’   
There’s a tired smile, and Feuilly nods.  
‘I’d like that.’

 

Bahorel’s mother fusses when they get home, her lips are moving to form scolding words, but she’s hugging him all the same. Feuilly can’t help but laugh, just a little.   
His head is still fuzzy and he’s not sure if he’s ever been quite so acutely aware of his heart beating before but he feels better than he did earlier. Which isn’t really that hard.   
He’s sat down on the sofa by Bahorel’s mother, and he sees the word dinner before she turns to Bahorel.  
‘She’s asking if you’d like a bath later. And if you’d like to stay.’ Bahorel listens a moment longer. ‘And that you can have my bed.’  
‘Why would I want your bed?’ Feuilly grins and Bahorel swears at him once his mother’s gone.   
‘I still haven’t forgiven you.’ Bahorel says. ‘I was terrified back there.’  
‘I’m sorry. I just kind of got dizzy suddenly and then I woke up with you frowning at me.’  
‘Never, ever do that again. Ever.’   
‘I’ll try not to. Promise.’ Feuilly crosses his heart with a smile. Bahorel doesn’t look completely convinced, but nods all the same.   
‘Jacqui also want you to help with her art homework tomorrow.’   
Feuilly’s more than happy to help; it’s a piece about literature, combining two of his favourite subjects. Jacqui’s selected water colours, but, evidenced by the larger proportion of binned work than pages in the book, they’re proving a frustrating medium.   
Feuilly places his hand over hers, indicating to himself. The ten year old pouts briefly, looking scarily like her brother, as she hands over the brush. Feuilly demonstrates how to gently add in the lines, making sure they don’t bleed. As Jacqui continues he cuts out the shape of tea cups and playing cards and mushrooms for her to paint over. They finish by afternoon, heading downstairs to present the picture to her mother and to get lunch in return.   
He goes to leave shortly after, thanking the family several times before he walks out the door. Jacqui tugs on his sleeve, pressing a piece of paper into his hand.   
‘Stay.’   
Feuilly hasn’t cried in a while, he usually tries not to. But when he gets home it’s all he can do to close the door, allow the tears to over flow and the smile he’s been supressing to tug at his lips.   
Bahorel drags him out over the weekend, and they sit smoking cigarettes outside the local pub, Bahorel with a pint that he nudges in Feuilly’s direction every now and then. Feuilly exhales a cloud of smoke.  
‘Do your parents know about the smoking?’ Feuilly grins and Bahorel steals back his drink, raising his eyebrows. He doesn’t warrant the question with a reply.  
‘Hey, you know what I said about… Moving in together?’  
‘You thinking I won’t be the ideal roommate?’ Feuilly jokes, but somewhere deep in his stomach he know it means more. ‘I mean you can play music as loud as you want, and you don’t have to worry about… Well.’  
‘No. Actually, well I know you’re going to need somewhere else to stay over summer and Jacqui’s been complaining at us…’  
‘She has..?’ Bahorel shoots him a smile.  
‘Mum might give in to her. You know, if you wanted.’  
‘I’d feel I was intruding.’  
‘Intruding? Oh come of Feuilly, you’re like my brother. Mum loves you, and she dotes on you. You can’t think you’d be a nuisance.’  
‘I guess she had to deal with you growing up.’ Bahorel’s mouth opens in an offended ‘o’.  
‘Rude.’ 

 

Feuilly doesn’t have too much stuff to move in, as it turns out. A few sketchbooks, notebooks, photos. The main thing he has is books, old charity shop books with dog eared pages from reading. Feuilly flushes faintly.   
‘I just like reading.’   
Bahorel takes him out on the evening of his birthday. They return home late, but Feuilly’s more embarrassed about it than he is.  
Over the summer his mother works on fattening Feuilly up, eventually finding this is an impossible feat, but at least he’s defiantly eating properly. Feuilly helps her in the kitchen each evening, watching as she shows him what to do. He washes up as well, Bahorel helps him to dry and put away and they join the family in the living room.   
Subtitles on films have become a feature, as has Feuilly sitting on the floor with a sketch book or some history book or another. Bahorel’s starting to wonder where he gets them all from.   
They go to Paris for a week, primarily to scout out an apartment, but Feuilly’s never been before so Bahorel drags him up the Eiffel Tower. Feuilly throws his head back as the wind whistles around them and stretches out his arms. A grin is plastered to his face, the ghost of laughter lost to the wind. 

Later that evening they head out to a bar without Bahorel’s parents.   
‘That girl is checking you out.’ Bahorel leans across the table. Feuilly glances around briefly.  
‘She’s looking at you.’  
‘Yeah right.’  
‘I’m not really…’ Feuilly presses his lips and fingers together. ‘In the mood?’ His face says it’s a question and Bahorel cocks his head to the side, his hair falling over his eyes. He throws his hands up and hurriedly signs ‘I’m not into that.’ then looks down, an embarrassed look on his face.  
“Oh! Oh.” Bahorel puts his hands together ‘Are you gay..?’ He asks carefully. ‘Because that’s totally-‘ Feuilly shakes his head.  
‘No I… I’m asexual.’ He says it slowly and methodically. ‘I just don’t look at people in that way.’  
‘At all? You don’t think she’s attractive.’  
‘Well yeah, she’s really pretty. And I guess I might sleep with someone, maybe. But it’s not really… It’s hard to explain. ‘I’m not attracted to people sexually. But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want a relationship.’ There’s a nervousness to his movements, but his shoulders relax ever so slightly.   
‘Well, it means I don’t have to worry about you bringing girls back.’ Bahorel smiles and Feuilly kicks him lightly under the table, but he’s supressing a smile of his own.   
They decide they like the little flat. It’s small, but the rent’s not too bad and they have separate bedrooms. Feuilly’s soon ends up stacked with books and note pads, though the furniture is kept to the minimum they were provided with. He doesn’t see any point in getting any more than what he needs, not when there are other things to spend the little money he has on. Bahorel’s is covered in posters by the end of their first month, what other little space there is taken up with photos of his family.   
It’s nice, with the two of them. Bahorel plays music as they cook, he sings a long and occasionally does stupid little dances from counter to counter. Feuilly can’t help but laugh.   
He’s found a talent for cooking he’d never previously realised he had. He likes making stews the best, they’re cheap and filling, but he thinks maybe he’d like to do more baking if he ever gets the time.   
Bahorel cooks his mother’s recipes, and then grumbles about how they never taste quite the same. Feuilly comes back from the job he’s found cleaning late most nights to find leftovers waiting for him on the table, already heated, and a film ready to watch.  
‘Shouldn’t you be… Studying?’ He asks, but he’s smiling and Bahorel tells him to shut up and sit down.   
Bahorel’s law books are piled up next to the sofa, Feuilly’s not sure how much he’s actually reading but Feuilly’s read most of them by the time the course is finished.  
He enjoys knowledge, it’s a little pleasure amongst his busy schedule. Time to sit back and relax.   
Bahorel continues boxing, with the open ended offer of Feuilly joining him on Wednesdays. He hasn’t been able to yet.   
As Bahorel goes out to meet classmates Feuilly finds himself restocking shelves in a supermarket after he’s finished cleaning. He doesn’t resent Bahorel having fun, but he sometimes feels he’s missing out, working two jobs without the chance to meet people.  
Bahorel takes him out once, it’s a small pub with a few friends who don’t quite get that he can’t hear anything. At all. Though them talking louder, and more pronounced does help him lip read he can tell he’s annoying them by being there, so he makes excuses next time and has a night to himself.   
When he gets a third job Bahorel makes his first comment.  
‘If I have to scrape you off the floor again I’m not going to be happy.’  
‘That’s not going to happen.’  
‘Three jobs? You don’t get in until nearly 11 each night now, sometimes later. Then you’re off during the day as well. You can’t keep doing it.’  
‘I can. I’m not saying you can’t keep up with early lectures and late nights am I?’  
‘I sleep in my lectures. Last night I found you asleep on the kitchen table with one of my law books. I think there’s a big difference here.’

 

Bahorel respects Feuilly, he does. He respects that he wants to do something, his determination, and steadfastness.  
He just wishes he wouldn’t be so damn stubborn about the whole thing.   
Wishes he wouldn’t live off of smiles and too-strong-too-cheap-instant coffee. Wishes he wouldn’t live off toast in the mornings and re-heated leftovers when he gets home. Wishes he wouldn’t live off words and 5 hours of sleep and naps here and there. Wishes his wouldn’t live off cigarettes and vitamins.   
Feuilly won’t accept charity, of any kind. Not books, not alcohol, not a reduction in his side of the food bill or the rent. He sometimes accepts cigarettes, if he’s desperate enough. Bahorel’s tried sneaking things in here and there, but it never works. Feuilly has a keen eye.   
‘You don’t seem to understand how you giving me charity feels. This is what I want to do, and I’ll do it in my own time and my own way.’  
There’s isn’t any point in arguing, not really. He’s tried, tried a great many times. He tried at Christmas when Feuilly pulled nightshifts on days no one else would work, tried when it was Feuilly’s birthday and he still insisted on paying for his own meal, tried time and again when he’s found Feuilly curled up on the sofa with the TV on or slouched over a book on the table. It’s all come to nought.   
They’ve been in their place for nearly a year and a half when he comes in from his evening lecture to find Feuilly draped across the sofa like a cat, the book he’d been reading falling onto the floor in a way he’ll defiantly complain about later because it’s going to damage the pages. His face is pressed against the arm of the chair in a really uncomfortable looking fashion, one leg falling off the other end.   
He crouches down next to him, picks up the book and drops it lightly onto his chest. Feuilly shoots up, clutching the book to his chest, eyes wide.  
‘You fuck.’ He signs when he glances around to find Bahorel, who hops out of the way as his roommate goes to hit him. ‘I was sleeping you shit.’  
‘We’re going out.’ Bahorel grins from his just-far-enough-away vantage. Feuilly looks at him, gives up with trying to hit him and flops back against the pillows.  
‘No we’re not.’  
‘You don’t get out enough.’  
‘According to you I get out too much. Leave me alone.’ He covers his face with his arm. Bahorel nudges him.  
‘What’s wrong?’  
‘Nothing.’ Feuilly shakes his head. Bahorel turns his head. ‘I got fired.’ Feuilly says eventually. ‘They didn’t need me anymore, so that was that.’  
‘Did you…’  
‘Of course I fucking did.’ Feuilly interrupts him. ‘Didn’t make a difference… They’ve got more experienced, less trouble workers.’   
‘We’re defiantly going out. You need to take your mind off it.’  
‘I don’t want to Bahorel. I want to stay in and not have to-‘ Feuilly curls up and rolls over without finishing his sentence. Bahorel moves to behind the sofa. Feuilly’s dark eyes are glaring up at him, but they’re sad. Bahorel claps a hand on his shoulder.   
‘It’s a political group? Students about our age. I’ve heard it could be interesting, I’m mean they’re pretty new but they’ve got to be better than the other ones I’ve been to.’  
‘Why haven’t you ever mentioned the other ones?’  
‘Because I know you’d actually kill someone at them.’ He grins and manages to get a small smile out of Feuilly. ‘Would you come? For me?’ He pulls puppy dog eyes and Feuilly buries himself further into the cushions of the sofa. Bahorel lets out a small sigh, and goes to start dinner. There’s a small shuffling and eventually Feuilly joins him, leaning on his shoulder.   
‘Okay. I’ll come along.’  
Bahorel takes him along to the library, which Feuilly still hasn’t stopped marvelling at yet. He reminds Bahorel a little bit of when they were kids, with his wide eyes and barely supressed smile. He knew this was a good idea.  
The meeting hasn’t begun when they arrive, a student comes bounding up to them. He has curly dark hair and hazel eyes and a wide white grin.   
“Hi, are you looking for Les Amis?” At Bahorel’s nod he continues “I’m Courfeyrac. And your names are?”  
“I’m Bahorel, this is Feuilly.”   
“It’s great to see new faces!” Courfeyrac shakes both their hands avidly. He seems far too excitable, Feuilly looks both bemused and overwhelmed. I’ll introduce you to the rest of them.”  
‘Could you write their names for me?’ Feuilly asks as they head over to the small group around the table. Bahorel retrieves a slip of paper from the table and writes Courfeyrac’s name and his description down.   
“This is Combeferre, he’s our secretary.” Courfeyrac brings them over to a bespectacled man with a kind smile who holds out his hand. Feuilly nods his hellos. Combeferre looks between them then gestures to his ear with one finger. Feuilly gives a small smile and nods again.  
“Completely?” Combeferre asks Bahorel.  
“I’ll sign for him.” Feuilly signs something at him a little too quickly. “And he can lip read. He says not to modify anything for him or he’ll feel like he’s causing trouble.”  
“Well, welcome to both of you. I didn’t get your names? Courfeyrac in his excitement has failed to introduce us properly.” Courfeyrac makes a noise of protest that Combeferre silences with a raised eyebrow.   
“Bahorel, and Feuilly.”   
Another man has appeared, peering around Combeferre.   
“We have new people?”  
“Yes, I’m not surprised you didn’t notice given how excited you were on the way here…” Combeferre says dryly. The blond man glares at him with fierce blue eyes. Combeferre looks almost like he’s going to ruffle his hair, but he doesn’t, instead introducing them both to “Enjolras, our… Leader I suppose. And finally we have Joly, the one over there reading.” He nods to the red haired student, whose knees are pulled up to his chest as he reads a book about anatomy. “Sometimes there are more, but they come and go a little. This is the core group.”   
They find a pair of seats and Bahorel draws up the list of names and descriptions completely, repeating each of the names in turn. Joly glances up as his name is mentioned and waves briefly.   
Enjolras begins the meeting, Bahorel signs along with it and Feuilly actually seems to relax and enjoy himself. For while, anyway.   
Then Enjolras mentions something about work or some such and Feuilly’s batting his arm just a little too hard.  
“Enjolras-“ Bahorel interrupts, and Feuilly’s standing now and he looks angry and his hands come up to sign his argument. Enjolras watches. “It seems to me.” Bahorel narrates. “That have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”  
“Excuse me-“ Feuilly raises a hand.  
“Exactly how are you paying for university? How many of you are paying your own way here? Really? How many of you have jobs to pay your rent or your tuition?” Feuilly’s signing is slightly erratic. “Or do your parents pay it?”  
“What difference does that make?” Enjolras asks, becoming annoyed himself by this point. Feuilly tch’s as he reads Bahorel’s hands.  
“It means that you cannot speak for me. Or anyone else, because you don’t know how it feels. And without learning, without finding out how people’s lives are you are no better than the politicians you wish to go against.” Bahorel bites his lip. “Do you know how it feels not knowing if you’re going to be able to make rent? Or not being able to buy that new shirt you need because you can’t afford it. Or, hell, not being able to afford to not work three jobs? Because if you don’t you need to, because otherwise you cannot talk for me. Otherwise nothing will change.”  
Maybe he’d been wrong about Feuilly not killing anyone here. His friend is glaring across at Enjolras who looks both taken-aback and angry.  
Combeferre intervenes before either can begin their argument again.  
“You make an extraordinarily good point. One which I think we have failed to think about before. Perhaps it might be an idea to extend our group past students? And also I would like to get your opinion on some other issues.”

 

Feuilly never expected to stay at Les Amis, in that first meeting he was close to walking out of the door and never coming back, chastising Bahorel for his terrible ideas and plans to make him feel better.   
Instead he’d sat back down and began going over things with Combeferre, explaining and pointing things out and helping as best he could.  
He’s glad he stayed now. Now he’s learnt that Combeferre is understanding and friendly and is willing to listen to anyone. Now that he knows Courfeyrac, with all his excitement, just wants to see everyone smile and won’t let you leave until you are. Now he knows Enjolras isn’t such an idiot, and will listen eventually when you point out his mistakes. And now he knows that Joly, for all his worry, always looks after everyone and always has a kind smile to share.   
He comes up with their signs one by one. Joly comes first, Feuilly can’t imagine him as anything else but a smile with dimples and so his sign come to him quickly. Combeferre is harder, torn between Bahorel’s suggestion of writing and books and something that seems more personal. Observation wins out, and Combeferre becomes the correction of his glasses, sliding them back up his nose as he leans too far forward when he reads.   
Courfeyrac’s is influenced by Bahorel’s description of his speech (‘Light, you know how lamps get when they’ve been on too long?’) and he becomes a mix of warmth and centre, his hands circling as he brings them from his lips.   
Enjolras is harder to pin down. It’s not that he doesn’t have traits, mannerisms, anything worth commenting on. It’s more that they blend together so much that he cannot distinguish them, cannot figure out which one reminds him of Enjolras more. He’s like a fire, but that isn’t how Feuilly would first think of him. He’s an idealist, an optimist full of hope, but that doesn’t fit.   
He signs something to Bahorel, knuckles scraping over each other as he twists his hands the other way.  
‘Change?’   
‘Enjolras.’   
‘Why?’ Bahorel asks, leaning back against the sofa, slinging his arm across the back.  
‘He lives and breathes ‘change’, he may as well be named after it as well.’  
Bahorel tosses his head back, shoulder shuddering in an unheard laugh. Feuilly tries to imagine it filling the room in a deep, rich tone - like velvet perhaps – and feels the rusty rattle of his own laughter quake in his lungs and up into his throat.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like their friendship?   
> Anyway here have a little bit about how Feuilly and Bahorel met, etc.


End file.
